White Collar: Stargazing and Poetic Justice
by Ruahnna
Summary: Stargazing and self-reflection often go together, and with Peter there to guide the way, things seem a little clearer.


Supper was done, the dishes soaking in the sink. El and Mozzie lingered around the table, talking gluten-free recipes, while Neal and Peter wandered out onto the balcony of Neal's apartment. The night was unseasonably pleasant, the wind soft on their skin.

Neal wandered over to the balcony and leaned his crossed arms on the stone surface.

Peter did the same, forearms resting against the rail.

"You know, I used to think it was all about…I don't know…getting to the _right_ place, the _right_ time, the _right_-"

"Con?" Peter supplied. Neal bit his lip and looked away, grinning.

"Maybe."

"_May_be?"  
"Okay—yes. The right con. _Happy_?"

Peter grunted and pursed his lips but said nothing further. They were quiet for a moment, looking at the gleaming skyline, the glittering stars. It was not an uncomfortable silence, just a profound one, and the city noises drifted over them. Behind them, the bright sounds of Mozzie and Elizabeth's chatter wafted out to them, familiar and comforting.

"So…." Peter said.

"So."

"What happened?" Peter said.

"You mean besides 'You caught me and ended my notorious life of crime'?"

But Peter was used to Neal's evasions, and he turned the conversation back.

"What happened to that idea of the _right_ place and time?"

"Don't forget the right _con_," Neal said.

Again, Peter pursed his lips, amused, but decided it was better to let Neal get to this conclusion his own way, in his own time. "Okay, Neal."

"So…." Neal began.

"So."

"It was an illusion." Neal's voice was pitched low, barely audible over the night sounds.

Peter said nothing, but after a moment, when nothing else was forthcoming, he glanced over at Neal surreptitiously. The pain on the younger man's face was palpable, his melancholy a visible thing. Neal felt Peter's eyes on him and his expression shifted, chameleon-like. The sadness disappeared, replaced by something that might have been serenity. _Might_ have been.

Peter turned, his back to the parapet, and looked at Neal out of the side of his eyes, giving him room. "You thinking about those old people?" Peter asked.

"Yeah." Neal stirred unhappily, and a ripple stirred the calm façade he was struggling to maintain. "They lost everything."

Peter objected, but mildly . "Not _every_thing. That senior citizen's advocacy group is working with them to undo the damage. The star players turned on each other the second they were booked, which helped. They're falling all over themselves to implicate each other."

"First one to say the magic words gets immunity, right?" Neal said. His voice was bitter, his expression glum.

"There was no promise of immunity," Peter said. He opened his mouth to say more, but stopped. Neal knew better than most how the system worked, how deals were cut and shaped to fit the needs of attorneys and criminals and prosecutors. He didn't need to tell him that, in all likelihood, the jail time would be minimal—the sentence a slap on the wrist. He hesitated, weighing the wisdom of his next words and Neal—alert to any weakness in his demeanor—pounced.

"What? You were about to say something," he accused.

In spite of the circumstances, Peter smiled and he put his head back up and looked—straight up—at the stars in the dark sky. It was one of those rare October nights in New York, crisp and clean and almost smog-free—a night _made_ for looking at the stars. "I was."

"So…?" Neal demanded.

"So…." Peter said. "Look, I'm not sure this is a good idea, but Shelby Anne said they could use some help looking at the forged documents—"

"I could help," Neal said eagerly. "I could—" He broke off, looking at Peter's face. "What? Why shouldn't I help?"

"It's not that you _shouldn't_," Peter said slowly. "It's more like…well, we can't pay you. At this point, the Bureau's involvement is mostly over, except for testifying. So you'd have to do it on your own—"

"I don't mind," Neal said flatly. "Heck, I could _use_ something…_useful_ to do."

Peter said nothing. Neal had been miffed about being excluded from a couple of big cases lately. Nothing personal, _exactly_—just the Powers That Be at the Bureau throwing their weight around because they _could_. There was still a lot of resentment over the way they'd shown Collin's up, for all that he'd gotten credit for the collar.

"That would be useful," Peter observed, his expression neutral. Neal looked at him for a long moment, then sighed and leaned back against the railing like Peter had, his head tilted up at the stars.

"Go ahead," he said, resigned. "I know you've been biting your lip all week."

Peter gave a fleeting smile but said nothing. "The stars sure are gorgeous tonight," he said. Below them, a car horn honked and there was a sprinkle of profanity, followed by the sounds of tires peeling out.

"Okay, fine," Neal muttered. "If you won't start, _I'll_ start."

"_Don't_ start—" Peter began, but it was too late.

"I know what you're thinking. You're thinking that, even though I never ran this kind of con—" He stopped, frowned, and continued more slowly. "Even though I never ran _this_ kind of con, you're thinking that the crimes I committed _hurt_ people—people like…."

No sense closing the barn door after the horses have all escaped. "There was that one curator who lost her job. What was her name—Selena?"

"Selima," Neal said shortly. "I remember—and so do _you_. I didn't mean for her to get—"

"—fired. Yes, I know. You didn't know they'd blame her when they looked at the footage—"

"I wasn't _on_ the footage."

"_Exactly_."

"Exactly? Don't _exactly_ me."

"If the _exactly_ fits—"

"You don't even know I was there," Neal said stubbornly.

"I _do_ know you were there."

"Only because I _told_ you." Neal's expression did not change but his voice was pouty.

"No," Peter insisted, patient but determined. "I knew because that heist had your m.o. all over it." He was quiet again, still looking up. "It was nice of you to support her until she got another job."

If you had asked him, Neal would have said that he knew Peter well enough—now—that there were few surprises. He would have been wrong. His mouth dropped open and he stared at his partner in consternation.

"How did you-? I didn't—"

"We kept an eye on her, just to make sure that her 'innocent me' routine wasn't a scam—"

"It _wasn't_."

"No—it wasn't. " Peter stretched his neck and felt it pop, garnering him a look from his C.I. "She was just another innocent, duped into—"

"I get it," Neal said. "Duped into believing something she shouldn't have. Like those—"

"Old folks."

"Senior citizens," Neal finished. Neal stretched his neck, infinitely more graceful than Peter, and felt it snap back into alignment.

"So…?"

"So…."

"You wanna help?"

"I said I did."

"You _did_ say that," Peter murmured. He patted his pocket. "I'll call Shelby Anne and let her know."

"Do that."

Peter got his phone out, thumbed it active and started to dial.

Inside, Elizabeth saw Peter step away from the wall, holding his phone. She darted a quick look at Mozzie to see if he had noticed. He had. "I know, I know," she said. "I feel a little silly, but I wonder what they're talking about."

"World domination?" Mozzie asked. He came up behind her, silent on soft-soled shoes.

"Maybe," said Elizabeth. "Neal looks so serious."

"He _always_ looks like that."

El thought about it. "Maybe," she said. "I'm not so sure." At that moment, Peter connected with whoever he had dialed and spoke. She watched his mouth move, saw him identify himself. Unexpectedly, Peter smiled, one hand in his pants pocket as he rocked a little on his heels. The sight of it made her glad—it was one of Peter's tells when he was happy—and her own lips curved into an answering smile. Neal was watching, too, and El looked at the two of them, one seasoned, the other still fresh, listening intently to the sounds of the phone call. Neal grinned at something he heard, looking to Peter for confirmation, and Peter bit his lip and nodded.

El felt Mozzie stir and looked to see him standing at her elbow, also looking toward the balcony. While they watched, Peter hung up the phone and the two men exchanged grins. Neal said something and shoved his hands in his pockets, unconsciously imitating Peter. His smile seemed genuine this time, and Peter made some comment that made Neal laugh. El felt Mozzie's quick, relieved exhalation of breath and darted him a quick look. His own expression was enigmatic.

"Beautiful night for star-gazing," he said. "Want to join them?" He could have said, "They've worked it out by now. We won't be intruding," but he didn't have to. He never had to with Elizabeth.

"It _is_," she said. She looked down to see that Mozzie had a bottle of champagne in one hand and two flutes in the other. She turned and saw the other two and picked them up, one in each hand. "Let's go," she said, suiting action to words.

Peter and Neal looked up when they came out and greeting them with smiles. Their earlier ebullition at the success of their bust seemed to have returned. El handed her glass to Peter, and Mozzie handed both of his to Neal so he could open the wine. After a moment of struggling with the bottle-opener, Mozzie and Neal exchanged glances, after which Mozzie took the two glasses and Neal opened the champagne. Neal poured with a flourish, never spilling a drop on the flagstones. They stood in a circle and lifted their glasses.

"To justice," said Neal, with just a trace of irony.

"To _poetic_ justice," Peter said, and looked at Neal. Neal flushed under the scrutiny and drank his champagne instead of complaining, but his miff lasted only as long as his champagne bubbles that tickled his nose.

"To…champagne," said Mozzie. "May it never cease flowing."

"To success," said El, reaching to plant a kiss on Peter's cheek. He bent to catch it, then cupped her face with his hand and held her still while their lips merged. They broke apart and grinned at each other, centered and at peace. With an unapologetic grin, Peter steered her toward the balcony railing and leaned against it. He pulled El back into his arms and pointed up at the stars, drawing her attention up to the glittering expanse of sky.

"Look," said Peter. "You can see the stars from here."

Neal sipped his champagne, thoughtful and quiet. Mozzie took a quaff and rubbed his nose, averting a sneeze.

"Everything okay with the suit?" Mozzie asked. He kept his tone light, wondering about the play of emotions he'd seen on Neal's face while they talked.

"What? Oh. Oh, sure. Everything's fine." As if sensing that this was unconvincing (it was), Neal smiled and started over. "Peter said I can help them with the forged documents," he said. "Help those seniors get back on track."

"Decent of—"

"—him. Yeah."

"—you," Mozzie finished, and they looked at each other.

"What?" Neal said, and smiled his Cheshire smile. "What is it? You've got that look."

"You're not that guy," Mozzie said. "Don't let him convince you otherwise."

"I know," Neal said instantly. "I know I'm not—but I—sometimes, Moz…."

Mozzie stopped in confusion, not sure he was tracking. Neal thought he'd said he wasn't _that_ guy, assuming he meant Peter, but he'd meant…wait. What did _Neal_ mean?

"Neal—?"

"Look," said Neal, pointing up at the twinkling panorama. "A shooting star."

"Make a wish," Mozzie said automatically, but he was pretty certain Neal already had.


End file.
